Petrov noted that the wind was picking up fast. The storm he’d outrun in the mountains was almost on top of them. In thirty minutes or less, the landing he’d just made would have been completely impossible. He allowed himself to feel a moment of complete triumph. Despite all the unexpected obstacles thrown in his path, he’d succeeded in pulling off a masterpiece of operational planning and piloting skill. And as a result, Russia’s most advanced combat aircraft was now effectively in his sole possession, along with twelve nuclear-armed cruise missiles. For one exultant instant, he understood what it must be like to be a demigod—a being far beyond the reach of other mortals.

And then everything went wrong.

As the snowmobile curved around to join the little group trudging toward camp, the shrill, high-pitched whine of its motor stabbed into Petrov’s brain. Together with the stress accumulated during his long and dangerous flight and the tumor growing unchecked inside his skull, that was more than enough to trigger a cascade of unbearable pain. Gripped by a sudden, blinding headache, he doubled over and vomited into the snow. Unable to stop himself, he moaned aloud in agony.

Taken aback by his abrupt collapse, everyone else turned to stare at him in surprise.

Everyone except Mavrichev. Seizing his opportunity, the stocky, bullnecked general stiff-armed the nearest guard, knocking the man sprawling backward into the snow. Free suddenly, he sprinted toward the idling snowmobile. And with a guttural shout, he hurled its surprised rider out of the saddle. Then, before anyone could move to stop him, he threw his leg over the machine, opened its throttle wide, and skidded away across the tundra, bent low over the handlebars as he accelerated.

“God damn it!” Petrov snarled. Furious at the guards for their carelessness and at his own weakness for distracting them, he pushed Bondarovich away, lurched upright, and fumbled for his sidearm, a 9mm pistol. Fighting past the waves of pain still spiking through his brain, he leveled the weapon, aimed, and fired several times at the speeding snowmobile.

Most of his shots went wide. But at least one 9mm round slammed into Mavrichev’s back, high up in the middle of his right shoulder blade. Bright red blood spurted into the air. A moment later, the fleeing general disappeared into a swirling curtain of wind-blown snow.

Still shaking, Petrov wiped distractedly at the vomit smearing his chin and then whirled toward Bondarovich. “Go on! Get after him!” he snapped.

“There’s no need,” the other man said callously. “That stupid son of a bitch won’t get far. You pegged him. And in this storm, he’ll either bleed to death or freeze soon enough.” He looked up at the sky and then shook his head. “No, Colonel. Don’t worry about it. We’ll retrieve the body once the weather clears.”

Nineteen

Barter Island Long Range Radar Site, near Kaktovik, Alaska

A Short Time Later

Rank had its privileges at the Barter Island station—at least to the extent that Captain Nick Flynn got his own sleeping quarters. True, the same small space also doubled as his office, and it was really just an eight-by-eight cubicle slapped together out of thin plywood partitions. But at least it offered a modicum of privacy when he needed it. Except for Sergeant Takirak, everyone else on his Joint Force security team had to share a room with two or three others.